


A Friend In Need

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Pining If I'm Honest, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29146992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: It was late, perhaps half past eleven in the evening, when there was a knock upon Major Colquhoun Grant’s bedroom door. His servant, Alexander informed him that he had a visitor downstairs. A man who was asking to see Grant, a man who looked not at all well, and who had declined to give his name. He asked did Grant wish him to tell the man to leave.
Relationships: Colquhoun Grant/Jonathan Strange
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4
Collections: JSAMN Valentine's Rarepair Fest!





	A Friend In Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreyNarcissus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyNarcissus/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's Rare Pair Fic Exchange!
> 
> 1\. This is a mishmash of show and book canon and some other stuff I'm pretty sure never happened in either? 
> 
> 2\. Grant is a bachelor with no kids. Not sure if he is in canon or not, but he is in this fic. 
> 
> Spoiler Notes at the end. Don't Cheat!

It was late, perhaps half past eleven in the evening, when there was a knock upon Major Colquhoun Grant’s bedroom door. His servant, Alexander informed him that he had a visitor downstairs. A man who was asking to see Grant, a man who looked not at all well, and who had declined to give his name. He asked did Grant wish him to tell the man to leave.

Grant told Alexander that he’d see to it. He pulled himself out of bed and donned a dressing gown and slippers before stumbling muzzily down the stairs to find out exactly who had interrupted his slumber. He saw a man standing in the foyer, hunched inside a dark coat, hat clutched in his hand, pale face drawn and pinched, and immediately recognized him. Grant would know Jonathan Strange anywhere. He’d recognize Strange by his voice alone, by his smell. He’d know the man, covered in dirt and blood and soot, and it was Strange who stood now in his foyer, looking like he’d just come from a funeral. 

“Merlin!” Grant ignored the rapid pounding of his heart and greeted his guest with as sunny a disposition as he could manage as he descended the last few steps to the foyer. He rushed to embrace Strange, as they had not seen one another for perhaps a year or more, and the sense he had that something was not right increased as he drew close and saw just how pale and distraught his friend looked. How there were streaks of silver in his hair that Grant could have sworn were not there the last time he’d seen him, and dark shadows under his eyes. Strange did not smile. He gave Grant naught but a stiff, brief embrace in return. When Grant, confused and more than a little alarmed, pulled back to look at him, he saw that Strange’s eyes were hollow. 

“Dear God Merlin! What’s gotten into you?” He asked, clapping Strange upon the back, trying to lighten the man’s unsettlingly dark mood with a cheerful tone. 

“It is Arabella,” Strange said, in a voice that cracked and rasped. “She is dead.” 

“What? Lord no! How?” Grant, saddened and alarmed, could not quite believe what he’d heard. Only last year he’d seen Mrs. Strange at a dinner party in London, looking quite alive and well. “No, no, do not tell now. First, come into the drawing room. Alexander! Build up the fire and fetch us some brandy please! Come Merlin, sit and warm yourself. Let Lucia take your coat.”

Strange was persuaded to doff his coat and give it, along with his hat and gloves to the waiting maid. He allowed himself to be led into Grant’s sitting room, where candles were lit, and new logs were placed upon the fire, and allowed Grant to gently push him down into an armchair near the hearth. He did not speak, only looked into the flames with haunted eyes. Grant sat opposite him and waited patiently for the man to make himself comfortable.

Once the brandy had been brought and Strange had taken a gulp or two, he spoke, again in the same wretched tone as before. “She died of pneumonia. Or at least that is what the doctor has told us, but I believe it was something far worse. Something that smelled of fairy magic.” He looked at Grant with his hollow eyes and a glimmer of anger flared from within their depths. 

Grant shivered, though the drawing room was by now quite warm. “Fairy magic? What made you think such a thing Merlin? Was she somehow enchanted?”

Strange frowned into his drink. “She was seen walking, out in the snow, upon the plains, in naught but a black gown. Only it was a gown I could swear she does not own. And she acted not at all like herself when she returned. She lay abed, shivering and mumbling nonsense about having branches and roots and about some blasted ‘sisters and brothers’ in a dark wood. And then on the third day, she...she...died.” He looked down at his hands where they were wrapped around the glass of amber liquid that rested upon his knee, and fell silent. 

“Oh Merlin, how dreadful.” Grant took a large swallow of his own drink before continuing, as he again felt a chill spill down his back from Strange’s relating of the circumstances surrounding his wife’s death. “And the doctor said that it was pneumonia? Were you able to find proof otherwise? Did you … perhaps… do some sort of incantation to discover the true manner of her demise?” Grant did not know much about Strange’s magic. He’d seen it a hundred times during their service together in the war. The first time of course being when Strange had rescued Grant from the clutches of the French by cleverly replacing him with a clay golem. Yet while he knew little of the mechanics of what Strange did, he knew Strange’s skills at magic were formidable, breathtaking in their scope and ability, and was disheartened to see the man so hopeless. If one of the two greatest magicians of the age could not discern what had befallen Mrs. Strange, then he shuddered to think what might have happened to her. 

“I tried every spell I could think of,” Strange replied. “I combed through every book I own, looked inside my silver dish. I did everything. Or… rather…” he paused, “not _everything_. There are some sorts of magic one should not contemplate. Even if one has a great need of it.”

Grant nodded solemnly. He knew they were both thinking of the reanimated Neapolitans. 

“I came just now from Norrell’s house,” Strange continued, his voice full of cold anger. “I begged him to tell me how he brought Lady Pole back to life. He snubbed me. Had me tossed out onto the street. I should have known better than to throw myself upon the mercy of a man who possesses none. But I was desperate, Grant! Desperation drives a man to do things he would never before have considered.”

“Damn that man and his cold heart,” Grant said with a sneer. He’d never liked or trusted Norrell, had been given ample reasons to dislike the selfish, miserly magician. “Merlin, I am so sorry for your loss. Mrs. Strange was among the best of women. She will be dearly missed.” And he told the truth. He had been fond of Mrs. Strange. Fond of her despite the gnawing envy that sometimes ate at him when he’d looked at her, when he'd seen the way Strange looked at her... 

“Can I have the servants make you something to eat?” he asked. “Will you stay the night? It is late, and cold.”

Strange looked up at him with a hint of warmth in his expression, a ghost of a smile at his lips. “I would like that very much. I seem not to want to return to Shropshire yet. The house is so empty without her.”

“Of course! Of course, please stay as long as you like. I’ll have the maid make up the guest bedroom. You may keep me company. I am retired now you see, with the war being over. Just an old bachelor, rattling about inside this house like a pea in a tin cup.” He smiled to let Strange know he was being humorous, not maudlin, not self pitying, but Strange seemed not to notice. 

“That is kind of you, Cally,” he said in response. The reemergence of his old nickname made Grant flush with companionable warmth, made him remember how that name on Strange’s lips used to make him feel. Like his heart was being tugged out of his chest by a thread that Strange held in his hand.

“It is nothing Jonathan. I am glad you are here.” 

And he was. Very glad. He hadn’t realized quite how useless he’d feel in the wake of Britain's victory over Napoleon. How being unmarried with no children would make him feel so adrift and alone inside his big house. How he’d bounce back and forth between nightmares of the war, and a queer urge to go back to the madness and noise and danger of it all. Having Strange here, even for a little while would be a pleasant change of events. He did not think too long on other reasons why it was so good to see his old army friend. Shoved those thoughts down for the time being. 

They talked for a while longer, about the funeral, Strange’s anger at Norrell, his resolve to search for a way to bring Arabella back. Grant was unsettled by the subject, but remained silent about his concerns. Instead, he simply poured Strange more brandy and nodded along, asked him a clarifying question now and then. 

Eventually Strange allowed himself to be shown to the guest room and given a basin of water for his washing. Grant lent him one of his own nightdresses and had the fire made up in the hearth so that Strange would be warm enough. It was mid February and the air outside still held the bitter chill of winter. 

Grant took himself to bed, crawled under the covers and tried his best to get back to sleep. He was beset with worries over Strange’s grief and resulting mission to resurrect his dead wife. He consoled himself with thinking that the next day, he would attempt to gently dissuade the man from this rash and unhealthy course of action. And that perhaps a good night’s sleep would help brighten Strange’s dark mood. 

And then of course, there was the knowledge that Jonathan Strange, clothed only in a nightdress was asleep just down the hall. That made it harder to relax in other ways, had his mind spinning with thoughts that weren’t proper or helpful to their current situation. But eventually, despite his crowded mind, he was able to relax and drift off into a fitful sleep.

He was woken what felt like only a short time later by the sound of screams in the night. A man’s screams. He bolted from his bed, threw on his dressing gown and ran, barefoot into the hallway. He found Lucia and Alexander, holding candles and waiting, ashen faced with worry, outside the guest bedroom. The screams, desperate and full of terror, were issuing from behind Strange’s closed door. Grant shooed the servants away, taking a candle from Alexander and saying he would deal with the situation. Once they were gone, he pulled open the guest bedroom door and stepped inside, shutting and locking it behind him in order to muffle Strange’s panicked screams and to give them some privacy. 

He found Strange, writhing upon the bed, eyes squeezed shut, crying out and clawing at the air with both hands. Horrified and dismayed, Grant placed the candle upon the bedside table and rushed to his friend’s side. He grasped Strange by the shoulders and shook him. “Merlin! Merlin! Wake up! Jonathan! It is I, Grant! Wake up please!”

Strange swiftly stopped struggling, and his eyes flew open, wide and panicked. For a moment, he gazed, wild eyed at Grant, his mouth gaping from the tail end of his last scream. “Grant?” he asked, sounding for all the world like a confused child. “What is wrong? What are you doing here?’

“You were screaming, crying out in your sleep,” Grant explained, releasing Strange’s shoulders and sitting down upon the bed with a relieved sigh. “Screaming as though to raise the dead.” He frowned, immediately regretting his choice of words. “I came in here to wake you and see what is the matter.” 

“Oh,” Strange relaxed a little, his arms falling at his sides. “I am sorry to have disturbed you old friend. It was only a nightmare.” He rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, making it stand on end like a thicket of blackberry brambles. “I have them quite often these days.” Strange shook his head, as if to clear it of cobwebs and looked about the room. “I think I may have dreamed of Arabella”, he said, his eyes moving to roam across Grant’s face. “I am truly sorry for the fright I may have caused you.” And then, to Grants utter surprise, Strange’s lip trembled, and he began to cry. His shoulders shook and he dropped his dark, curly head and sobbed. 

“There now Merlin, don’t cry. All is well.” Grant awkwardly patted Strange upon the shoulder. He ached to pull Strange into an embrace, to kiss his forehead, to run a soothing palm down his back. None of this would be welcome, and so he patted the man gently and kept his distance, kept his useless, aching heart hidden. “Do you wish for me to go?” he asked, for while that was not at all what he wanted to do, he had no desire to crowd Strange, or to embarrass him by bearing witness to his grief. 

“No! No, please stay,” Strange grabbed both of Grant’s forearms in a strong grip and looked into his face with desperate, tear stained eyes. “I do not wish to be alone.”

“Then I shall stay.” Grant said. Strange sagged with relief, and Grant noted that the man’s hands upon his forearms remained, their touch gentling. The contact was warm and thrilling. It had been too long since he'd seen his friend, or since he’d known the feel of intimate touch. “Can you remember any more of the dream?” he asked, for he felt he should say something else, keep Strange talking to distract him from his fear and grief, and to distract Grant himself from the feelings brought up by Strange’s touch. 

“Naught but dark, shadowy images and a feeling of great loss,” replied Strange through his tears. He sniffled and his chest hitched with a final, small sob. He seemed to be out of the woods, and so Grant offered him a handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing gown, which Strange gratefully accepted and used to wipe at his tears and blow his nose. 

“Are you feeling better now?” Grant asked after they had sat together for a few moments. He did not wish to outstay his welcome. “Shall I leave you alone?”

“Please stay,” Again there was a pleading note in Strange’s voice, the sound of which struck its way deep inside Grant’s chest, wrapped fingers around his heart and tugged. “Stay for a while. There is plenty of room, and it is a cold night. I cannot bear to be alone. Won’t you stay?”

“Of course,” Grant responded. Lying in bed next to Jonathan Strange had been a thing that he’d thought of many times, in the privacy of his mind, in the lonely darkness of his room at night. Strange moved over and Grant blew out the candle and climbed in beside him. They settled down beneath the covers, side by side, shoulders pressed together. Grant could hear Strange let out a long, ragged sigh, though he did not say anything further. Their combined warmth and the feeling of closeness soon lulled Grant back to sleep.

He woke some time later to the feeling of incredible heat and the knowledge that Strange’s body was pressed against his own. It was dark and likely a few short hours before dawn, with only the thin light of a single street lamp shining in the window of Grant’s guest bedroom to see by. Slowly, as he rose from the depths of sleep and got his bearings, he realized that Strange was wrapped around him like a lover. The man was likely still asleep, for his breathing was low and even. His face was buried against Grant’s chest, his dark, curling shock of hair tickled Grant’s chin. Strange’s arm was wrapped about his waist and his leg was slung over Grant’s hip. 

After allowing his sleep-muddied brain a few moments to truly understand what was transpiring, Grant felt a hot flush of arousal at Strange’s closeness. Oh how he’d wished to be in this situation countless times before. Had thought at one time that he might be driven mad with want, with the unquenchable and unattainable desire he held for the man that now rested so peacefully in his arms. Strange, warm and willing and pressed against him. Realer than any dream could ever be. He could not help but gently thrust his nose into the profusion of Strange’s dark curls and breathe in the faint lavender and hat leather smell of his hair. He felt himself growing swiftly hard between the warmth of their bellies, and prayed that his body would cease it’s shameful reactions and allow him to go back to sleep. 

He had no wish to alarm Strange, nor make the man flee his house in disgust. And while his companion was clinging to him in a very intimate manner, people were known to reach out for warmth and comfort whilst lost in the shadowy halls of their sleeping minds. Such actions did not at all have to find a mirror in their waking desires. Likely, Grant thought with a small, sad frown, the man was dreaming of his dead wife. _Arabella_. Even in death she stole Strange’s attentions away from him.

There had been looks. Between he and Strange. During the war. They had fought side by side, saved one another’s lives on more than one occasion. There had been many times during and after the mad heat of battle, when their eyes had caught and held, and Grant had sworn he'd seen something there, felt something pass between them. But he could never be certain. Strange had been a married man. And a comrade, and such feelings between men were not to be discussed or acknowledged of course. And even if Strange’s eyes had said things full of fire and intensity, his heart had always belonged to Arabella. 

But now, pressed together in the darkness, feeling the other man’s warmth against him, Grant’s secret longings were swimming back to the surface and making him think things he most assuredly should not.

Strange moaned softly and squirmed a bit in Grant’s arms. He sounded as if he was waking, and Grant felt his heart start to pound at the thought that he (in his excited state) might be discovered. He held himself very still and waited, hardly daring to breathe. 

Strange moaned again and his arms tightened around Grant. The face that had been pressed against Grant’s chest was now nuzzling gently at his neck. “Mmmm _Cally_ ,” Strange murmured.

Grant heard his name, uttered by Strange’s sleep-softened mouth, and his heart beat still faster. Could it be that the other man was truly aware of who he was embracing and what that meant to them both? Or was this still part of some mixed up dream?

Strange stroked a warm hand slowly down Grant’s back and nuzzled his nose into Grant’s neck, and Grant could feel the soft brush of lips against his skin. He bit back a moan.

“Cally, tell me to stop,” Strange murmured, his hot breath breaking against the sensitive skin of Grant’s neck, and while his voice was still muzzy with sleep, it was growing more and more obvious that he was aware of his actions. 

Grant swallowed thickly. “Merlin,” he managed to get out from a throat that was suddenly quite dry. “Do you know what it is you’re doing?” For he had to be certain. His reputation in society, his friendship with the man in his arms, his safety, depended upon Strange knowing precisely what sort of fire he played with in this moment. Where things might lead next. 

“ _Yes_ ,” came the immediate response, the word a hot burst of breath against Grant’s throat. “It is something I have wanted for a long time. If it is a thing you do not want, then please, I beg you, tell me to stop, and I shall.”

“I _do_ want it,” Grant breathed, kissing the top of Strange’s sweet smelling head as his heart banged itself against his ribs. “I want it very much,” he said the words into the soft profusion of curls against his lips. 

“Thank _God_ ,” Strange said, his voice tinged with an exhausted sort of relief, and then, Grant could feel a hot, wet kiss being placed upon his neck. He gasped at the feel of it, and at the sharp pull of lust that shot directly from Strange’s lips to his stiff cock, making it twitch between them. He moaned aloud and pulled Strange closer, and then Strange’s mouth came up and his lips found Grant’s lips, and then they were kissing. 

Grant felt as if his entire life may have been leading up to this very moment. Leading to Jonathan Strange, warm and soft and kissing him so sweetly upon the mouth. The taste of the other man’s lips, salty with tears and spicy with the remnants of the scotch he’d drunk earlier were delicious. He moaned into the kiss and teased at Strange’s lower lip with the tip of his tongue. Strange opened his mouth and then their tongues slid together in a dance of wetness and heat. Grant could not help but press his hips against Strange, and the two men shared a low moan at the resulting friction.

Strange thrust back against him, increasing the thrilling pressure and pulling another moan from Grant. He gripped at Grant’s low back and pulled him closer still, and soon, they were rubbing against each other in earnest. The kiss had graduated from a soft sweet thing, to a hungry clash of lips and tongue and teeth. Strange was moaning incessantly. One long, low, soft sound of need, his hips jerking in his haste to thrust and rub, like some animal, seeking relief. Grant let his hand reach down to grasp Strange by the buttock to fit them even more tightly together, and heard Strange let out a ragged sound. He could feel Strange’s cock, hot and thick and stiff between them, rubbing against his own belly and cock and the feel of it was driving him mad. 

“Cally, oh _Cally_ , can I… can I please…”

“ _Anything_ ,” Grant said it and meant it. He’d let Johnathan Strange do anything to him at this moment. 

Strange pulled away from their kiss and put his lips next to the heated shell of Grant’s ear. “I want to put my mouth upon you,” he whispered, and Grant could not help but groan, long and low at the contemplation of such an act.

“Oh Merlin, _please_.”

Together, with rushed hands, he and Strange pulled their nightdresses up and off and tossed them from the bed. Grant was afforded a glimpse of Strange’s pale limbs and nicely muscled shoulder as Strange waved his fingers in the air and muttered a few words. Grant looked at him quizzically and Strange grinned, his smile a welcome sight indeed after the evening’s dour mood. “It will not do for us to be overheard by your servants,” he said “and so I have done a small spell to eliminate sound.”

Grant smiled in response as he marveled at his friend’s facility with magic, but he soon forgot all about magical spells as Strange settled back beside him and began kissing his way down Grant’s chest. His lips were like fire, hot and wet and sucking, and Grant gasped, threw his head back at the pleasure of it.

Soon, after leaving open-mouthed kisses down Grant’s stomach, Strange reached his destination. Grant could feel the other man’s hot breath against his straining cock. “Oh Merlin, how I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, thrusting his hips up a little in anticipation. He had to be careful. He could not say too much, go too far with declarations and praise. He knew Strange could never return the depth of his feelings, but holding back would be difficult. The countless nights he’d stroked himself to thoughts of this very thing… Dangerous words crowded themselves at the back of his mouth, pressed against his teeth, aching to be spilled into the chill air of the bedroom. 

Strange wasted no time in engulfing his head and sinking down upon his shaft swiftly, skillfully. His mouth, so hot it was almost painful, yet also somehow, it brought relief of a sort, like a cool drink on a muggy summer’s day. His lips and tongue, so slick and wet and mobile, sucking, swirling, almost felt too good to bear. Grant let out a sharp yelp of surprised pleasure, and his hands flew to Strange’s head. He wound his fingers in Strange’s thick, dark curls and moaned. “Oh God, _Merlin_ , dah-” he almost said ‘darling’, then cut it off midway, drowning the remaining syllable in a sharp intake of breath. He knew he was skirting dangerous territory, for Strange’s mouth on him was making him lose his senses. 

Strange began working him with his mouth and hand in tandem, stroking whatever part of Grant he could not fit between his lips with a delightfully tight fist, gripping at just the right, perfect pressure, and Grant knew he would spend soon. He’d lived alone, wanting this very thing for far too long. The last sort of physical affection he’d received was months ago, from a molly boy, one with dark curls and a mischievous smile. An act that matched this one in basic mechanics, but accomplished in a back alley, and for pay. It was an interaction that had none of this moment’s heat or emotion. This was no bored, efficient molly boy with Grant’s cock in his mouth. This was Jonathan Strange. Wild, miraculous, beautiful, long-hoped-for Jonathan Strange. Grant tightened his hands in Strange’s hair and felt the resulting moan against his tortured flesh, and the vibrations nearly drove him to the edge. 

_Jonathan_ ….oh please,” he gasped out, rough and urgent. “I’m… I won’t last much longer…” 

Strange nodded a little and moaned again, his movements quickening, his consent clear as day, and that was all the reassurance Grant needed. With a gentle volley of thrusts up into the dangerous, mobile heat of Strange’s mouth, he felt himself coast up to the cliff’s edge of his pleasure and fall over the other side, into a startlingly strong climax. He gasped Strange’s name, “ _Jonathan!_ ” as he came, crying out, thrusting helplessly. Feeling Strange take all of him with ease. 

Once the pulses of pleasure slowed and faded, Strange slowly pulled his mouth up and away. Grant felt the cool air against his spit-damp skin and almost moaned in disappointment, even though he knew he was already going soft. Strange climbed up next to him and molded himself against Grant’s body, kissing his face and neck. “Cally, you were so good. You felt so good,” he whispered between kisses.

“You truly are a magician,” Grant said with a voice both drunk and fond, and felt Strange’s body shake with a small chuckle in response. He turned in Strange’s arms and boldly kissed him full upon the mouth, tasting his own spend. For a while they occupied themselves with slow, deep kissing as Strange’s hands roamed at first lazily, and then with purpose over Grant’s body. He could feel the heat from Strange, sense the unspent desire, and he wanted to give back what had been given to him, and so he gently pushed Strange away and down onto the mattress. 

Grant began to lavish his neck and collarbone with hot, messy kisses, and Strange groaned in anticipation and thrusted up eagerly with his hips. He teased at a nipple with the tip of his tongue and smiled when Strange gasped and writhed beneath his touch. Grant tongued at one nipple and toyed with the other with his fingertips, marveling at the strong reaction this caused. He himself had never desired such treatment, but Strange obviously delighted in it. 

He kept on until Strange’s cries grew rough and desperate. Then, once Strange was arching up against his mouth and fingers, gripping his hair and begging to be sucked, he kissed his way down across Strange’s heaving sternum and soft belly. He groaned as he felt the flesh jump and clench beneath his lips and tongue, hearing Strange gasping his name over and over. 

Grant sucked and kissed and licked until he reached the man’s straining cock. Once there, he spent some time playing with Strange. Letting the warm, stiff flesh drag across his cheeks and lips, and placing small, teasing kisses to the shaft, to the warm sack beneath. He’d waited a long, long time to do this. To play Strange’s body like an instrument. To pull those lovely noises from that lovely throat, and so he had every intention of taking his time and driving Strange out of his mind with lust. 

He kept his teasing, rubbing, kissing, without giving Strange the satisfaction of all of his mouth, until the man began to beg and grasp at his hair and shoulders. “Please Cally, please, _please_.” He then took pity upon his friend and took him between his lips. 

The taste and feel of Strange’s cock sliding into his mouth was beyond any dream he could have conjured up. He could not help but moan helplessly as he slid his lips as far down on the shaft as he could manage. Then, employing a sucking pressure, he rose again. Strange let out a ragged sound and bucked up, just a little into Grant’s mouth, and _oh_ , that was a thing that Grant thought he might like more of.

He encouraged Strange with hands upon the man’s hips, and soon the two were working in tandem, Strange thrusting up with small pulses, as Grant slid down upon him, taking him deep into his mouth. Before long, Grant found that his own cock had risen again, was now stiff and throbbing against his thigh. He’d been so aroused by what he was doing to Strange that he hadn’t noticed. He grasped himself and stroked slowly as he worked Strange at an equal tempo. 

Strange begged him to go faster, pulled gently at the hands in Grant’s hair, but he ignored the man. He wanted to draw this out, to torture Strange a little. To make him lose his senses and pull such pleasure from him. Most of all, Grant wanted to fully distract him from his pain. He slowed the strokes of his lips and tongue, making them long and even, and when Strange bucked up too urgently, striving for more friction, he restrained the man with a stilling hand upon his hip. Strange whined with frustration, but there was naught he could do but let himself be held down and lavished. All the while, Grant worked himself with his hand, building on the mounting pleasure within his low belly. He did this carefully, stroking and then stopping... stroking and then stopping... in the hope that they could spend together. 

Strange was gasping out Grant’s name again, “Cally, _Cally,_ Cally!” then, “Ohh _Colquhoun_ ,” in a long moan. His movements had gone stiff and uncoordinated and Grant could feel him tensing, approaching his peak. He stroked himself faster, and moved his mouth upon Strange’s cock faster as well, and the feel of the man, so slick and hot, jutting past his lips, brought him ever closer to his release. With only a few more swift strokes, he was there, feeling a twist of pleasure unfurl deep inside him. He moaned, rhythmic and sharp against Strange’s cock, and felt Strange arch up and join him, crying out with his own pleasure. Grant’s mouth filled with warm, bitter spend, further slicking the movement of his strokes upon Strange’s pulsing flesh, and he gratefully swallowed it down, as he spilled over his own pumping fist. 

Strange eventually fell silent and still, with naught but his panting breaths disturbing the air of the bedroom, Grant gently released him, and after taking a moment to clean his hand off on a sheet and tossing it out of bed, he crawled up to take the other man into his arms. They lay, embracing, spent and still breathing hard, hearts pounding almost in unison from where their chests were pressed together. Grant ran slow, reverent fingers through Strange’s thick mop of curls and kissed his face while Strange stroked his hand down Grant’s side to his hip and back, playing teasing fingertips over his sensitive skin. 

It was a moment both sweet and sad, for Grant knew that Strange could never stay with him. That he would be unlikely to be swayed from his gruesome quest to somehow bring back his wife. He had needed this release of passion and emotion just as much as Grant had, but for different reasons. He resolved himself to enjoying what little time they did have, as he pressed his lips to Strange’s, kissed him long and slow. He poured all of his unspoken words into that kiss, saying with soft strokes of lips and tongue what could not be said aloud. 

Some time later they fell asleep. Grant’s sleep was deep and dreamless, and when he awoke with the first thin rays of the morning sun through the bedroom window, Strange was gone. Grant rose swiftly and donned his nightdress and robe, not wishing the servants to find him in the guest room bed, rather than his own, and snuck back to his room. He washed and dressed with haste, and then went in search of Strange. But the man was nowhere to be found. 

Grant asked Lucia if she had seen Strange this morning, and she said that she had not, but that there was a sealed note for Grant upon the small table by the front door. Grant thanked her, and with an apprehensive twist in his gut, he hurried to find the note. Once he had it, he ripped it open without a second’s delay, unfolding the paper with trembling hands and a sick heart.

_My dearest Cally,_

_I cannot thank you enough for the warmth and affection and shelter that you provided for me last night. I was mad with anger and grief, and you brought me back to a saner, more centered state of mind. You have always been a dear friend, and one that I shall miss if my travels take me somewhere from which I cannot easily return._

_I wish you all the best. Know that I will always think fondly of you and our time together._

_Yours in affection,_

_Merlin_

Grant held the note to his chest and bit back the sharp sting of tears that pricked at his eyes upon reading Strange’s words. He’d known that their union could never be, and yet, reading this note, so full of warmth and friendship, without a hint of the longing and the pain that Grant felt regarding their time together, the possibility that it might be their last... well, it made their ultimate separation a reality sooner than he’d wished for. He folded the note carefully and put it into his jacket pocket, then gathered himself, and asked that Lucia have the cook make him a light breakfast.

He went to his room, unlocked a small wooden box upon his mantle where he kept papers of a private and important nature, old love letters, the deed to his house, a letter of thanks from the King’s own hand, congratulating him for his work in the war. He placed Strange’s note inside and locked it again, locking away his longing and his sadness with it. He hoped that wherever Strange was going, that he’d find peace some day. And perhaps, their paths would cross again…

**Author's Note:**

> 3\. I gave Grant a nickname, because oof! Colquhoun is a name that needs a nickname.
> 
> 4\. I really ship these two now! I thought it would be fun to write for this rare pair, but then I kind of fell in love with them. So thanks fate, for letting me write this fic!


End file.
